I'm Still Here
by Gameson221b
Summary: Sherlock physically rescues John; John emotionally rescues Sherlock. Their love for each other rescues them both.


Still not owning, but always adoring.

* * *

_My fault, it's my fault. I never should have let him go on his own._

Arms outstretched, holding the not talked about army weapon in both hands, Sherlock slipped around the corner and stopped dead. The corridor, six doors, three on either side, stretched long and narrow before them.

_He__ has to be here. Mycroft said he was here. Mycroft's never wrong. This would be a bad time for you to be wrong, brother dear._

A firm hand clamped around his arm, forcing him to turn back. DI Lestrade leaned in close.

"Take it slow, Sherlock," he whispered.

"He's here, I know he's here."

Lestrade stared at him. Sherlock didn't want anyone but John looking at him with such intensity, so he scowled his displeasure.

Lestrade continued his scrutiny for a moment, then his face softened. "Sherlock, it's not your fault. You couldn't have guessed this would happen."

He shook his head. "I should have known John would go off on his own. It should have been me, not John...and I never guess."

_Yes you do._ John's voice echoed in his mind.

Lestrade huffed and shook his head. "Sherlock, let's just find John and get him out of here."

He nodded once, much like John often did, stood at the head of the corridor, observing the scene before him, shutting out everything, including the tedious DI.

_Where are you, John?_

He held up his hand to silence any further comments from Lestrade.

_John, tell me where you are._

It was barely a sound, an intermittent tapping, but he obeyed its call, edging his way along the corridor, stopping at the first door. Lestrade followed close behind. Easing the door open, Sherlock stepped inside. John was not...there.

_John, I need you to help me._

Sherlock didn't believe in telepathy, but sometimes he considered his and John's innate ability to communicate on a deeper level, each sensing the other's presence. John was here, of that he had no doubt.

Taking a position at the center of the corridor, Sherlock studied every aspect of the scene before him for anything out of order, anything that would lead him to John.

_Come on, John, tell me where you are. Give me something._

The tapping he'd heard moments earlier resumed only briefly, but it was just long enough.

Approaching the door opposite the one he'd already opened, he paused, his fingers circling the doorknob, and once again swept his gaze along the walls.

"Oh." His whisper caught Lestrade's attention, drawing him to his side.

"What?"

Sherlock pointed toward the end of the corridor. "Do you see it?"

"What am I looking for, Sherlock?"

"You see, but you do not observe, Greg." Habit supplied the words he instantly regretted when he saw the frown on Greg's face.

"Sherlock."

"The last door, Greg, it's open."

Lestrade followed his gaze, grinning when he, too, saw the only door that was ajar.

Swallowing hard, suddenly and uncommonly afraid of what lay behind the door, Sherlock paused. Standing to his left, facing the direction from which they'd entered, Lestrade protected their flank.

He was just about to ease the door open when there came from within the unmistakeable sound of body impact, and a familiar moan. Weapon drawn, he pushed the door wide and stepped into the room.

"John!"

In less than three seconds, he deduced exactly what had happened just moments earlier. Pocketing his, no, John's gun, he crossed the distance to his best friend in three long strides.

Handcuffed with his arms above his head, John stood on bare tiptoes and quivering legs. Eyes blown wide as he struggled to breath, his army doctor stared back at him, tears of relief brimming. Blood streaked along one side of his face from a gash at his temple that had dripped onto his T-shirt. The tape across John's mouth was stained with the blood still streaming from his nose. And the man who had been his captor lay unconscious at John's feet. Sherlock already knew that the blood on John's foot and the corresponding blood on the other man's nose and mouth were one and the same.

With his arms around John's hips, Sherlock lifted the doctor to allow Lestrade to free the handcuffs around John's wrists from the chain and hook above his head and eased him down onto the floor.

Supporting John from behind, Sherlock stripped off his Belstaff and wrapped it around him. He leaned over John's shoulder, gingerly peeling away the tape from his mouth.

"Sh...r...ock?"

"Yes, John, I'm here. Greg, too."

"Key."

"Key?"

"He has...the key...handcuffs."

Greg moved to search the unconscious man's pockets and seconds later, John was free of the handcuffs.

Up until that moment, John had seemed to be in good condition, but when he began to shiver and his teeth chattered, Sherlock struggled to hold his panic in check.

"Sherrr...ock?"

"I'm here."

John looked at him through clouded eyes.

"I...think...Sherr...ock..."

"What is it, John, what's wrong?"

"Sherrr...?"

"You're perspiring, John."

"Dizzy."

"John..."

"Weak," John whispered.

"Sherlock, he might be..."

"John, are you going into shock?"

John nodded as his eyes closed and his body went limp.

Sherlock raised his eyes to meet Greg's and panicked. "We need to hurry."

"Car's just outside."

Sherlock lifted John into his arms as Lestrade quickly gathered John's belongings and followed just as Sally Donovan appeared at the opposite end of the corridor.

"Donovan, take charge. Kidnapping and assault on John Watson. We're off to A&amp;E."

"I'll take care of everything."

* * *

"There is no reason to keep Dr. Watson for observation. No concussion, but he is dehydrated. He's breathing easier now that the blood has been cleared from his nose. No broken bones, although both shoulders have been hyperextended. He'll experience some weakness. Rest is indicated and when he feels up to it, he can begin light exercises."

Turning from John to the doctor, the detective filed away the information for later. "May I take him home now?"

Dr. Merrick smiled and nodded. "Of course. Give him plenty of fluids and let him sleep as much as he needs. He should be fine in two or three days. I'll have the nurse remove his nasal cannula. Stop by the desk and sign the discharge papers and he's free to go."

Sherlock stared at Dr. Merrick at length before deciding that John's care had been adequate. John Watson was the only doctor whose expertise he trusted.

"Thank you."

The attending physician raised his eyebrows, holding Sherlock's intense gaze, and barely smothering a smile as he turned to leave.

"You're very welcome, Mr. Holmes."

Eyes narrowed with suspicion, Sherlock glared at Dr. Merrick's retreating back. "Mycroft," he muttered under his breath once the door closed.

The door opened once more as the doctor returned just long enough to deliver John's prescription. "Do give my regards to your brother."

Grateful though he was, Sherlock took a moment to curse his brother's interference. "Your pointy nose is everywhere, brother dear."

The nurse entered the room only moments after the doctor departed, her hurried manner disturbing John's sleep enough for him to protest. She left as quickly as she had arrived, much to Sherlock's approval.

John's soft moan drew Sherlock to the side of the bed. Holding one of his doctor's hands between both of his, he leaned in close to John's bruised cheek.

"If you're...gonna get...that c-close, you'd b-better kiss me."

Sherlock chuckled, obeying John's slurred request with a soft, languid kiss to comfort them both. He nuzzled into John's neck just enough to make his army doctor sigh and to distract himself as an unaccustomed moment of the wobbly knees forced him to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Mmm. Nice."

He now knew John was not seriously injured, that there was no reason to allow panic to take root. Regardless, something akin to free-floating anxiety or fear plagued him, as if his eyes, and therefore his mind, doubted what was the truth: John was safe.

"How are you feeling?"

"M-much better...n-now." John struggled to keep his eyes open.

"Happy to help, John."

"Can we leave now?"

"If you wish."

"I wish."

Sherlock leaned down to kiss him once more and to gaze into John's sleepy blue eyes.

Ten minutes later, stitched, bandaged and a bit wobbly, John sat on the edge of the bed as Sherlock tied his shoes. Gently threading John's weakened arms into his coat, Sherlock zipped the front and patted his cheek to get his attention.

"Got your breath, Dr. Watson?"

John smiled up at him. "Ready when you are, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock chuckled deep in his throat, tucked John's head beneath his chin for a brief moment and wrapped his long arms around him.

"That's Consulting Detective Holmes to you."

"Ah, yes, the only one in the world...pity."

Sherlock pulled back, resting his hands on John's shoulders, and frowned with concern at John's reply. "What?"

Sherlock relaxed when John's mouth turned up into the smile reserved just for him.

"I much prefer 'my love.'"

"As do I...my little muffin."

John giggled softly, tilting his head back to capture Sherlock's lips.

"Thank you for finding me."

Sherlock pressed his lips against John's ear. "Oh, I will always find you."

John shivered.

* * *

During the cab ride back to Baker Street, John drifted in and out of sleep. Sherlock smiled at the small groans and moans as John shifted beneath his arm, restlessly trying to find a comfortable position.

"It won't be much longer, John."

"I'm fine."

"As soon as we get home, I will bathe you, feed you up, medicate you and take you to bed."

John tipped his head to look up at him. "That's a lot of yous, Sherlock," John whispered, his eyelids drooping when Sherlock traced his mouth with a fingertip.

John turned just so, resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder, and rubbed his cheek against the soft Belstaff wool. Under the watchful eye of the cabbie, the detective leaned down to kiss the top of John's head. When he caught the driver rolling his eyes, Sherlock grinned, kissed John's crown a second time, and held him closer against his body.

* * *

"Sherlock...I'm not an invalid, I can bathe myself."

"John, you're injured. Just remain calm and I will care for you."

John squinted up at him through the water cascading over his head. Sherlock gave John his best 'please let me help you' face.

"Oh, all right, then."

Holding John's jaw with one hand, Sherlock gently cleaned beneath his nose to remove the remaining blood. The waterproof bandages covering the doctor's stitches seemed to be doing the job, so when John tried to protest again, Sherlock doused him with a spray of water. Sputtering was followed by the familiar Watson glare.

"Sherlock!"

"Sorry, John, my mistake."

Squeezing a liberal amount of shampoo onto John's head, Sherlock massaged until John's hair disappeared beneath the foam. His army doctor moaned and shivered his approval.

"Rinsing now, John. Close your eyes."

John sighed heavily, indicating to Sherlock that his patience had worn thin. It disappeared altogether when he soaped the washcloth and attempted to wash John intimately.

"Sherlock, no!"

Considering their intimate relationship, he was confused about John's reaction. Immediately contrite, he offered the washcloth to John, but not without the wronged expression that sometimes got past John's 'Sherlock is manipulating' radar. This time, he could not ignore the odd ache at the center of his chest, and only at the last did he discover that his usually impenetrable feelings might be hurt.

"I'm sorry...I...would you rather I leave?"

John sighed and shook his head, washing himself with great difficulty and stubborn resolve.

"I'm sorry...I shouldn't have shouted. I...you were trying to be helpful. Thank you."

_Three-hundred-seventy-three under the Watson radar hits!_ Sherlock crowed inwardly for all of five seconds. John would say it was a bit not good.

"It's all right. It's been a hateful day. You finish up and I'll prepare something for us to eat."

_He was angry. Was he angry? Why was he angry?_

Sherlock took just a few steps away, pulling the door closed behind him. He stood in the hallway for a moment, hesitating, fingers splayed against the door, when he heard a thump and a splash.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock waited.

_Why did he wait? It wasn't fair to John. No, not good at all._

"Sherlock?"

He didn't want John to feel helpless. Still, he waited a few moments longer.

"Shit."

Sherlock smiled a bit, then frowned, then felt unkind.

"Sherlock? Are you still there? Sherlock?"

The detective leaned his forehead against the door, feeling every bit the bad man he was for manipulation.

"Sherlock, please, my arms are too weak, won't hold my weight...Sherlock, please, help me."

Ignoring John's plea was too much for Sherlock to bear.

"Sherlock?"

It was John's small, vulnerable 'please' that finally reached his heart and woke him from his...whatever it was that had scrambled his thoughts and kept him from John.

For all John's quiet bravado and toughness in dangerous situations, Sherlock knew that within him dwelt a man of deep, tender emotions. Rarely, when exhaustion and pain overwhelmed him, John allowed him, and only him, to witness his tears. On those rare occasions, Sherlock was privileged to be the one to comfort his beloved puddle of tears, sobbing...and snot.

Silently berating himself for selfishly wanting John to need him, Sherlock stepped inside the loo to find John sitting in the now empty tub, his forehead resting on his knees. He bit his lip to halt the burning behind his eyes. Without a word, Sherlock rinsed John with warm water from the sprayer, helped him out of the tub and patted him dry. It took just a few moments to help him into his favorite blue flannel pyjamas and his dressing gown.

The doctor sat on the toilet seat, staring at the floor, obviously embarrassed, for reasons Sherlock didn't fully understand. He'd seen John naked many times, yet he doubted that was the reason for John's distress. Kneeling on the floor, Sherlock curled his hands over John's and leaned forward to bump their noses and steal a kiss. It was at that moment that a tear dropped onto his hand and he could not pretend it was from the doctor's wet hair.

A heaviness he recognized as guilt settled on his shoulders. "I'm sorry?"

John sniffed. "Don't apologize, you haven't done anything to apologize for."

"I wasn't certain...I would never...it..." He chewed on his lower lip; he wasn't sure what to say. "It makes me sad to see you like this."

"It's just..."

"You feel helpless?"

John nodded.

"Sometimes I feel helpless, too."

John shook his head. "When have you ever felt helpless?"

The sharp edge to John's voice was understandable, given his behavior, but Sherlock took no offense. Instead, he raised John's head with a finger under his chin and pressed their mouths together. The doctor leaned into his warmth and protested when he pulled away.

"At this moment and every time you're hurt, or sad, or angry with me and I don't know how to make it better because I don't always understand the emotional nuances?"

John held his gaze, but it was not at all uncomfortable, although John looked as vulnerable as Sherlock felt.

"Oh," John whispered.

Sherlock rested his forehead against John's.

"Mrs. Hudson left us dinner in the fridge. And she wrote out instructions for me on how to warm it. Keep me company?"

John nodded. "Yes, all right."

"Here are your slippers."

"Thank you."

Once John toed into his slippers, he stood to follow Sherlock to the kitchen. The detective, noting that John was a bit unsteady, stayed at his side as they walked. When John stepped up to help, Sherlock hesitated a moment, then rested his hands on John's shoulders.

He chose his words with great care. "John, allow me to prepare dinner?"

"But I want to help."

John's tone was like that of a petulant child. He was always grumpy when tired, but Sherlock knew better than to challenge him. He considered John's request. "Very well."

Once Mrs. Hudson's stew was in the microwave, he turned back to see John standing in front of the cupboard, staring at the door above shoulder height.

"John?"

Although his fingers functioned perfectly, John struggled to lift his arms above the counter top.

"I...can't..."

Coming up behind his doctor, Sherlock circled his arms across John's chest and held him close, pressing his cheek against John's.

"It's all right, John. Why don't you sit at the table. I'll make tea while we wait."

"I...yes, all right."

John dropped into a chair with a huff of frustration. For a moment Sherlock stared at him, unsure of what to say. A cranky John Watson was also a vulnerable John Watson. The kettle whistled and the moment passed, but while he prepared their tea, he studied John.

The doctor sat slumped in his chair, staring at the table top. With both hands he reached for the mug in front of him, but his arms shook, splashing the hot liquid over the back of his hand. Sherlock grabbed the cup before it slipped from John's fingers and placed it on the table. With his thumb he wiped the tea from John's hand.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you all right, John?"

John didn't answer. He tried again to lift the mug to his mouth, but this time, Sherlock supported his hands. Once the cup was safely back on the table, John let his hands fall back into his lap.

"John, tell me."

John hung his head. Sherlock thought he wouldn't answer, but just as the microwave stopped, John looked up at him.

"I'm...tired of being...kidnapped."

"I know...I'm sorry. This was all my fault. We should have gone together."

Sherlock stood to retrieve the stew from the microwave. He filled two bowls, collected two spoons and two napkins and returned to sit beside John.

John stared at the bowl and sighed.

"You're sighing a lot."

"Yes."

"You're angry with me?"

"No."

"Talk to me, John."

John said no more. He tried to lift his arms again, but failed, frustration evident in his frown. Sherlock reached across to place John's weakened arms onto the table. His heart clenched as he watched his best friend struggle to bring each spoonful to his mouth. They ate in silence; John kept his eyes downcast, but Sherlock watched him.

After clearing the table and setting the dishes in the sink, Sherlock stood behind John, massaging the offending muscles with firm fingers.

"I know it's early, John, but you need painkillers and sleep."

John nodded, grunted as he stood, shuffled toward the bedroom, his movements sluggish, as though walking was the last thing he wanted to do.

* * *

"Mmmmm."

"Good?"

"Mmmmmmmmm."

"More?"

"Please."

"Harder?"

"God, yes...owwww!"

"Sorry...stop?"

"No, don't...stop."

Sherlock chuckled.

John sighed the sigh of exhaustion. "Don't ever stop."

Sherlock's thighs burned and quivered from straddling John's hips for nearly an hour. "John, I don't think I can keep this up much longer."

"Just a bit longer, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed dramatically as he leaned up to kiss the sensitive spot behind John's ear, but he really didn't mind. When John shivered, he mouthed the skin where neck met shoulder.

"Ohhhh, yes, right there."

He pressed his thumbs deep into the muscles at the curves of John's shoulders. "Here?"

"Mrrpft."

"Was that a yes?"

"Mmmmmmmmm."

"How about here?"

"Argh."

Sherlock rarely giggled, but he giggled for John. Anything for John.

"John, you are decidedly not a pirate. That's my area, remember?"

"Yes, sor-ry."

He kissed John's cheekbone. "Don't be."

"Okay."

"Are your arms still...?"

"Prickly?"

"I was going to say, painful, but prickly suits."

"Yes, still p-prick-y"

Sherlock, grinning at John's pillow muffled reply, kissed his neck again.

"I think that will do for now, John. If you still feel...prickly tomorrow, I will massage your shoulders and back again.

"Thannnk yoouuu."

Sherlock turned John onto his back and pulled the duvet over him.

John's eyelids drifted shut, but he forced them open again when Sherlock kissed the corner of his mouth.

"Rest now. I won't be far."

"Sherrr-lock...don't go."

"Shh, don't whinge, John."

"Don't go...please? It's...I'm shivery?"

"Five minutes, John."

John moaned his displeasure. "O-kay."

Once the flat was locked down, Sherlock returned to the bedroom to find John asleep. After turning off the lamp, he sat on the edge of the bed for a long while just watching the slow rise and fall of John's chest.

John's declaration that he was tired of being kidnapped weighed heavily on the detective. John knew the dangers of The Work, that he would always be a target for those who wanted to get to Sherlock Holmes. Knowing that didn't make it easier for either of them, and now, loving John heightened his anxiety by a thousand. Of the few he recognized, losing John always would be his greatest fear.

Sherlock groaned, then went silent when John stirred and reached for him. He crawled over John and lay beside him.

"Prick-ling...nearly gone now."

Sherlock smiled at the whisper of John's sleep-slurred words.

"That's good."

As the emotional walls he'd just that day assembled to contain his fear trembled along with his body, Sherlock gathered John close, imprisoning the doctor's arms between them.

Nuzzling into his neck, John sighed, feathering his surgeon's fingers along Sherlock's collarbone.

"Sh'lock?"

_He knows. John always knows._

This time he could not contain his trembling, or banish it to keep it from John. At that realization, his eyes filled without his permission, his throat closing so suddenly that he had no time to bite back a sob.

John shifted at once, planted his foot on Sherlock's bent knee, and pushed himself upward so they faced each other, breathed together.

"Don't."

He held John's wide-eyed, now fully awake gaze, no longer able to hide his tears and no longer wanting to do so. John's warm hands cradled his face as deep, painful sobs erupted from his throat.

"Hey, it's not your fault."

John kissed his eyes and the tears beneath, finally settling over his mouth.

"Not your fault, Sherlock."

He buried his face against John's shoulder, gulping back great sobs.

"Oh, it's all right, love."

"John."

"I know, you were afraid, but you didn't lose me. I'm still here."

"John."

"Sherlock, let's just be here right now, forget what happened before."

"Jawn."

He felt John go still at his tone, as if a safe word had been spoken to halt any progression. John cradled Sherlock's head in his hands, his loving touch calming him as nothing else could.

"It's all right now, love," John whispered. "Let the fear go. Right here, right now, there is nothing to fear."

"Jawn," he whispered back.

"I'm still here."

When his doctor's mouth found his, he curled into his smaller, but sturdy body and let himself be cocooned in John's comforting embrace.

"I'm still here," John breathed against his mouth. "I'm still here."

* * *

A/N:

As always, thank you, "C." Your friendship is a gift.


End file.
